Or in Plato's Cave
Apologies for the recent inactivity. I meant to leave a post a couple of months ago, effectively to hand in my resignation here. For a couple of years now I've had a desire to write fiction. Writing for the purposes of the blog is too often a distraction, and it takes away what limited time I might have to write stories, or even a book. With this in mind, I think it's safe to say that Lights in the Dusk has reached its natural conclusion. For now, at least.
I have several unfinished pieces that I might some day get around to completing if I can muster the time and energy. And I never rule out the possibility that in a brief moment of inspiration, or bored infuriation, I might write an aside that's worth sharing. Case in point, the post in question.
The below was written in response to a recent article published by The Guardian. Popcorn! Screams! Mass sobbing! Why I can’t wait for cinema’s big return. Not to belabor a point, but it's another lament from yours truly against the failure of criticism to break-free from the conservative perception of the cinema as something that exists as public spectacle. That it's a conveyor belt of distributed product to be assigned a category and qualification, and not as something that exists and has continued to exist throughout the pandemic, thriving and surviving wherever a film, old or new, can be seen. A lamentation against the unspoken hierarchy that all critics preserve because it's good for business, but bad for art.
Obviously, the cinema, in its reality as a brick-and-mortar space, matters, but in what capacity? Certainly not in its current form. So, I'm afraid I'm cynical about what role the cinema now plays as a kind of nostalgic, post-Covid yearning for the world as it once existed, and as it might exist again. How, in the course of time, a lack of choice, expression, diversity and content has been taken as a kind of totem to the glory days of the medium, when in reality the cinema was already failing, becoming a space where only products of power and affluence were given a screen to be seen. This is a contentious point on my part and one that leaves me open to charges of being against the tide of populism, but so be it. It's a lone voice through the darkness, a whisper in the twilight of Plato's cave, as weak and imperceptible as a mouse's roar.
I have several unfinished pieces that I might some day get around to completing if I can muster the time and energy. And I never rule out the possibility that in a brief moment of inspiration, or bored infuriation, I might write an aside that's worth sharing. Case in point, the post in question.
The below was written in response to a recent article published by The Guardian. Popcorn! Screams! Mass sobbing! Why I can’t wait for cinema’s big return. Not to belabor a point, but it's another lament from yours truly against the failure of criticism to break-free from the conservative perception of the cinema as something that exists as public spectacle. That it's a conveyor belt of distributed product to be assigned a category and qualification, and not as something that exists and has continued to exist throughout the pandemic, thriving and surviving wherever a film, old or new, can be seen. A lamentation against the unspoken hierarchy that all critics preserve because it's good for business, but bad for art.
Obviously, the cinema, in its reality as a brick-and-mortar space, matters, but in what capacity? Certainly not in its current form. So, I'm afraid I'm cynical about what role the cinema now plays as a kind of nostalgic, post-Covid yearning for the world as it once existed, and as it might exist again. How, in the course of time, a lack of choice, expression, diversity and content has been taken as a kind of totem to the glory days of the medium, when in reality the cinema was already failing, becoming a space where only products of power and affluence were given a screen to be seen. This is a contentious point on my part and one that leaves me open to charges of being against the tide of populism, but so be it. It's a lone voice through the darkness, a whisper in the twilight of Plato's cave, as weak and imperceptible as a mouse's roar.
Photo credit: igoriss/Getty Images/iStockphoto:
The real reason why critics are desperate for the cinemas to re-open has little to do with an actual love of movies. It’s because without cinemas, critics, in their current, journalistic capacity, have no reason to exist. The cinema for them represents a hierarchy. One that benefits their own self-interests over those of the paying audience.
Conventionally, critics get to see movies before us, "the plebs" do. They use their privilege to shape the discussions and expectations surrounding the film, convincing an audience whether they should give up their valuable time and hard-earned money to actually see it. If you remove the enforced hierarchy of theatrical distribution and embrace streaming as self-curation, then the stakes of seeing a film are much, much lower. The critic's voice no longer has the power to make or break a movie. You see a title on Netflix or Amazon, you check the trailer, and if it looks good then you watch it.
The result of this is a kind of democratizing of the viewing experience. Removing the barriers that separate a film (theatrical) from a TV series, a Netflix feature, or a video produced for social media.
The critic can't grapple with the idea that a video produced for YouTube or TikTok is probably getting more views and having more impact on the popular culture than a film like Nomadland (2020). They don't understand the idea that anything can be reviewed, critiqued, discussed or placed within a wider debate as a new kind of image-making, because they only understand the idea that a film is something prestigious (read: expensive) that plays in a cinema. A conservative, outdated view. This is why the cinema has become a place where the same old stories and images get repeated ad infinitum. The cinema is atrophied.
Commercials get shown in cinemas, but critics don't review them. Why? Afterall, they're short films. It's because the critic's job is to review the movie the studio want to promote, not the cinema experience.
For the majority of us, the cinema experience has become the practice of paying £8.00+ to see the latest billion-dollar Disney product with a crowd of people snacking, chatting and checking their phones. It's the experience of sitting through 30 to 40 minutes of commercials before we get to the actual trailers. It's noisy heating systems or having the lights too bright. It's people arriving late or leaving early, brushing past our knees, and stepping on our feet as they go.
And for what? To pick from a small handful of six to ten films (of the 1000s released globally every month) on the basis of what some person designated a "critic", or a wealthy studio, or distributor has decided has merit.
Sure, the cinema is spectacle, if you're into seeing the same CGI extravaganza from film to film, but is it really a shared experience? What have we shared exactly? The process of looking at images projected on a screen? Afterwards we just shuffle out into the daylight, head lowered, barely exchanging a glance or a word with these strangers. Whether we enjoyed the film or not has little to do with whether the rest of the crowd enjoyed it. It's not live theatre. It's not a concert. It's sitting in a big room watching a pre-recorded image, no different to what we do at home.
If you'd like to keep up with what I'm watching and commenting on, then I'm still active on MUBI. And hopefully I might return a couple of times before the end of the year to post some of the longer essays currently languishing in states of incompletion. Thanks for reading.
Further reading at Lights in the Dusk: The Box Office Bomb [27 January 2021], Fin de cinema [08 October 2020]
Conventionally, critics get to see movies before us, "the plebs" do. They use their privilege to shape the discussions and expectations surrounding the film, convincing an audience whether they should give up their valuable time and hard-earned money to actually see it. If you remove the enforced hierarchy of theatrical distribution and embrace streaming as self-curation, then the stakes of seeing a film are much, much lower. The critic's voice no longer has the power to make or break a movie. You see a title on Netflix or Amazon, you check the trailer, and if it looks good then you watch it.
The result of this is a kind of democratizing of the viewing experience. Removing the barriers that separate a film (theatrical) from a TV series, a Netflix feature, or a video produced for social media.
The critic can't grapple with the idea that a video produced for YouTube or TikTok is probably getting more views and having more impact on the popular culture than a film like Nomadland (2020). They don't understand the idea that anything can be reviewed, critiqued, discussed or placed within a wider debate as a new kind of image-making, because they only understand the idea that a film is something prestigious (read: expensive) that plays in a cinema. A conservative, outdated view. This is why the cinema has become a place where the same old stories and images get repeated ad infinitum. The cinema is atrophied.
Commercials get shown in cinemas, but critics don't review them. Why? Afterall, they're short films. It's because the critic's job is to review the movie the studio want to promote, not the cinema experience.
For the majority of us, the cinema experience has become the practice of paying £8.00+ to see the latest billion-dollar Disney product with a crowd of people snacking, chatting and checking their phones. It's the experience of sitting through 30 to 40 minutes of commercials before we get to the actual trailers. It's noisy heating systems or having the lights too bright. It's people arriving late or leaving early, brushing past our knees, and stepping on our feet as they go.
And for what? To pick from a small handful of six to ten films (of the 1000s released globally every month) on the basis of what some person designated a "critic", or a wealthy studio, or distributor has decided has merit.
Sure, the cinema is spectacle, if you're into seeing the same CGI extravaganza from film to film, but is it really a shared experience? What have we shared exactly? The process of looking at images projected on a screen? Afterwards we just shuffle out into the daylight, head lowered, barely exchanging a glance or a word with these strangers. Whether we enjoyed the film or not has little to do with whether the rest of the crowd enjoyed it. It's not live theatre. It's not a concert. It's sitting in a big room watching a pre-recorded image, no different to what we do at home.
If you'd like to keep up with what I'm watching and commenting on, then I'm still active on MUBI. And hopefully I might return a couple of times before the end of the year to post some of the longer essays currently languishing in states of incompletion. Thanks for reading.
Further reading at Lights in the Dusk: The Box Office Bomb [27 January 2021], Fin de cinema [08 October 2020]
